


The Best of Days and the Best of Men

by JokerzPrincezz



Series: Of Broken Things and Their Golden Gleams [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dom!John, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, FTM John Watson, Feels, Fluff, Gentle dom John, Light Dom/sub, Love, M/M, Only slightly alluded to, Pedophilia mentioned briefly (they catch the guy), Rape Recovery, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sherlock is totally here for dom john, Strong John, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex, healthy sex life, kinda sorta marriage proposal, seriously not a major part just John trying to be comfortable again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 05:57:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18845026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JokerzPrincezz/pseuds/JokerzPrincezz
Summary: Some days are good days. Some days are wonderful days. Today is that day.Sherlock's utter acceptance and appreciation of his boyfriend leads to developments in their relationship. Sherlock, for once, is more than happy to follow his lovers lead. Stories are told, love is shared and the boys had better get themselves ready for a wedding.





	The Best of Days and the Best of Men

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: there is some discussion of Pedophilia, some allusion to John's rape and continuing recovery. It's all pretty minor, and you wouldn't catch the rape discussion if you hadn't read my first story in this series.
> 
> DISCLOSURE: I am not transgender. If something is offensive, as always, please let me know. Though I have a few trans friends a small sample size can't speak for a large population of people. I simply write John as he is and as I imagine him to be and try to be as respectful as I can. 
> 
> Gotta say, I'm accidentally making a whole world here that I didn't intend. Not mad really. I've got at least three or four more stories in mind for this series, we'll see if I can get them all done by summers end.

Sherlock wasn’t eager to take the case. Cases involving children where more trouble than they were worth. Usually, they were solved quickly and easily, even without his help, and the repercussions for having someone like him on the job were bothersome. He had quite enough of Donovan and Anderson thinking he got off on bloodshed. Accusations of pedophilia were about two million steps too far.

But John insisted. John hadn’t given his favor on a case since Moriarty. Even before then John had only ever given Sherlock a stern look, a look that said, “ _we’re taking the bloody case you prick_ ”. So, Sherlock agreed. It turned out to be a more intriguing case than he anticipated, not because of the mystery ( _what mystery? The children, a set of twins, were born of an affair. The father was neglectful of the illegitimate children and the mother followed suit, ashamed by her infidelity. The children left home, ran away and into the arms of a sex offender who offered safety and shelter. Once the children were in his clutches they realized what he was going to take from them, and they ran. The offender fled his home, afraid the children would go to the police. The children had already been found and child services were deciding if they ought to be sent back to their neglectful parents. The offender was still on the run, currently being chased along the edge of the Thames by one Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and one Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusilers._ ) rather, Sherlock was intrigued by _John_.

It was a good day, a blessed day, both for London as a whole and for John. It had been a beautiful day, bright and sunny, perfect in every way except its unseasonable warmth. As such Sherlock had mournfully begotten his Belstaff in favor of the purple shirt that made John struggle to keep his eyes off the detective. John had similarly forgone his own coat. Instead, wearing a dark blue plaid shirt, hanging open and rolled up to his elbows with a simple white vest underneath. John was rarely this unbuttoned, rarely was so much of his tanned, scarred skin on display for the public. By god, Sherlock had to keep reminding himself to _keep his bloody eyes up_.

“There!” Sherlock cried, pointing.

 John grunted in acknowledgment and kept pace. A moment later they had cornered the would be re-offender in a dead end alley. He was an offensive looking man, dull brown hair and panicked red-rimmed blue eyes, unremarkable in every way were it not be for his lack of personal hygiene. He turned wildly when he realized he had caught himself in a dead end and faced John and Sherlock. He seemed to size them up and decided things were in his favor. Why wouldn’t he think that? He was dim enough to see only the basest observable information. A poncy git who was rail thin and a man who was nearly a head shorter, compact and middle aged.

“Well, ladies?” he snarled. ( _Sherlock looked out the side of his eye to John. He was still, like a cat waiting to pounce.)_ “Are you going to get out of my way, or do I have to make you?”

Suddenly John grinned, rocking onto his back foot, his hands stayed by his side but rolled into fists. His eyes were darting about, measuring how much room he had to fight.

“We know what you’ve done. The children are safe, if you come with us now, we promise not to hurt you.” John said calmly.

The man’s eyes widened, and he began to breathe hard, nostrils flaring. Suddenly he took at them in a sprint, obviously hoping to slide between them. Sherlock, seeing John’s eyes sparkle with humor, simply stepped aside. John caught the man by the throat and swirled him around, slamming the predator into the wall before delivering a clean punch that landed squarely and broke the man’s nose. The man was wheezing as he slid to his knees, clutching his throat with both hands. John grabbed his hair and slammed the disgusting creature face first onto the ground and climbed on his back, grabbing both of the man’s hands and pinning them down with one of his own.

Sherlock stared on in amazement, exceedingly grateful that the setting sun couldn’t reach into this dark little alley, for John surely would have seen his erection straining against the fly of his pants. Sherlock forgot sometimes, in his utter infatuation with John's mind, that his body was nearly as intoxicating. His compact unassuming strength was bewildering sometimes and provided more than enough fuel for Sherlock's imagination. Sherlock liked that John could, quite easily, throw him about like a ragdoll, John could effortlessly subdue and physically manipulate Sherlock. Even more alluring was the fact that John could do all this with _gentleness_ if he wished, and what’s more, that none of it would ever surpass Sherlock's comfort zone.

The soldier’s strength, the doctor’s compassion, and John's honor. John, this wonderfully complex polar creature with whom Sherlock was bewitched. John who was layer after layer. At first glance a genially middle-aged man with a boyish smile and soft eyes. Another glance, the soldier, disciplined by training, burned by war, hardened by experience. Another glance, the genteel doctor with a kindly bedside manner and empathetic nature. Another glance, the abused child struggling daily to work out what parts of the humanity he grew up with were toxic, and which bits were acceptable, full of impotent rage born of fear. Another glance, the transgender man, sometimes self-conscious, sometimes heartbroken by his own body, but now confident with vestigial thorns of self-defensiveness left from years of having to assert his place and identity. A final glance, yet a million more, would reveal John. Just, _John_. John the man who was a thousand things, and among them, master of the hidden heart belonging to Sherlock Holmes.

“Sherl? Sherlock!” John snapped, looking at him in exasperation. Sherlock started. John was holding out his right hand impatiently.

“Cuffs? And for Christ’s sake, call Greg.”

“Who?” Sherlock asked in confusion as he pulled the handcuffs from his back pocket, relinquishing them to John. John shot him a look. The “ _you’re forgetting a normal person thing_ ” look.

“Lestrade, love, call Lestrade.”

“Oh, oh yes of course.” Sherlock obediently pulled out his mobile.

“You really need to figure out his name, you know, seeing as he’s going to be your brother-in-law sooner rather than later.”

“What?!” Sherlock squawked in indignation. Looking up from dialing Lestrade’s number. John, who was lifting the predator to sit against the brick wall, sighed.

“Seriously? Your brother sent us that letter last week? The engagement announcement.”

“Who’d want to lay with… that?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“You ought to be nicer to him, he loves you.”

“He’s invasive.”

“He’s _trying_ to take care of you.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me!” Sherlock said indignantly. John gave him a disbelieving look.

“No offense, love, but I’ve got a year and a half of experience that begs to differ.” Sherlock sniffed and turned his nose up as he brought the phone to his ear. “ _Be nice._ ” John hissed and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

* * *

 

The man’s name was Robert Dwelling. A name deleted as soon as Lestrade had said it. The DI informed the pair that the man had already served five years for intent to purchase child porn. Apparently, they’d found a hoard of fresh pornography in the man's home. It seemed he was responsible for the rash of temporary child disappearances from surrounding areas. According to Lestrade, whose face was twisted in disgust, this man had been kidnapping, drugging, photographing, then releasing children he managed to find alone. Thanks to the pair, he would be heading to jail for a very, _very_ long time. John’s chest puffed with a grim pride.

* * *

 

As the two headed home John laid a hand very high up on Sherlock’s inner thigh.

“What’re you doing?” Sherlock asked quietly, blushing furiously.

“Shh.” John hushed him softly.

His hand moved higher. Sherlock sucked in air through his teeth and blushed brighter, grabbing John’s hand which was almost in his crotch. Lightning fast the doctor's hand turned over, then over again, trapping Sherlock's hand against his _own_ groin in an iron grip. John was watching him curiously, just holding him there. Sherlock shivered and relaxed. John squeezed him briefly in reward and scooted closer. Sherlock swallowed as John laid his hand ( _capable of both a headshot through two windows with a damned handgun and wielding a scalpel in the deadliest of ways._ ) squarely over his cock. Sherlock was so concerned with the feel of John's hand against him for the first time he didn’t notice when John leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“I saw you staring.” His voice was low, softer than usual. Sherlock gulped again as John's hand flexed, Sherlock could feel himself thickening, hardening under John's ministrations.

“John.” He breathlessly gasped, so quite it was almost silent. He saw John smirk out of the corner of his eye.

“Be quiet for me, we’re almost home.” Sherlock nodded haltingly as John's hand doubled its efforts.

As they pulled up outside the flat John mercifully allowed Sherlock to exit first, scurrying up the steps, his hands slipping along the knob. He didn’t even have the safety of the Belstaff to hide his far too prominent erection. John strutted to the house, preening like a damned peacock. Sherlock could only hold hopelessly onto the door of their flat, hiding his lower body behind it. When John finally entered, he walked Sherlock back until the younger man felt the couch at his knees, then John pushed on his chest. It was firmer than Sherlock expected, and the detective lost his balance, sprawling back ungracefully, unable to right himself before John sat atop him and grabbed his wrists, holding them on either side of Sherlock’s head, against the back of the couch.

“J-John.” Sherlock finally stuttered, harder than he’d been since his first time with Victor over a decade prior. John smiled at him, not gentle, but not predatory either, and swiveled his hips. Sherlock groaned and slammed his head back against the couch, scrambling for purchase to thrust his hips up.

“You like this?” John sounded breathless.

Sherlock wanted to make a quip about how, _obviously_ , he bloody like this, but he couldn’t _think_. John was surrounding him, holding him down, he didn’t need to worry about anything for a moment, they would run at John's pace. Follow John's rules. All Sherlock could do was squirm in his grip, fighting without attempting to get away, just testing the limits. John groaned in turn and leaned in, kissing Sherlock fiercely. Sherlock, who had been taken by surprise, hadn’t had time to draw breath and as such he got lightheaded before the older man. Whining against thin, soft lips, gentle stubble scratching at his fair skin. Finally, John pulled away and Sherlock, though he was panting for breath, tried to follow.

“Don’t touch me yet, ok?” John asked.

Sherlock was lost, confused for a moment as to why on earth he couldn’t touch. He felt _good_ , he wanted _John_ to feel good. _Touching_ felt good. Sherlock's brain was misfiring, but when his eyes finally cleared and he saw the serious apprehension in John's own he remembered and ( _oh yes, ok, no touching. Sherlock could do that,_ ) he nodded.

John pulled back and Sherlock meaningfully set his hands to the side, away from John's body. John relaxed a little and kissed his forehead in reward before beginning to pull off his top. Sherlock hungrily followed tan worn hands as they pulled at well-loved clothing, faded from use. It looked soft. Sherlock wondered if John's rough hands caught at the nearly threadbare fabric. When John was finally bare, he had a strange look upon his face.

Part apprehension, part defensive pride, part bashfulness, and part smugness at Sherlock’s apparent appreciation. Sherlock greedily ran his eyes along John's torso, cataloging this fresh piece of his lover. _This_ is why Sherlock loved him so, John was ever changing and made of a million moving parts. Sherlock just wanted to take him apart and learn each one. Every time Sherlock was allowed another piece of the puzzle that was John Watson, he hoarded it like a dragon with gold.

The second largest scars on his chest where the twin pair running under his pectorals, identical, white, pearlescent under the light of their living room. The stitching was immaculate, John must have been exceptionally careful with them, no signs of pulled stitches, just neat little rows where the thin scars tugged at long healed skin. Clean, precise, ordered, and controlled. The scar along his shoulder told a different story. A starburst of mottled flesh. Red and angry looking. It was stunning, these two parts of John, so inexplicably linked, one not born without the other, and all of it a road map to now. John, the neat tidy, small little man who lived a life of strict control, and John the burning star, capable of turning you to ash with but a moment’s notice.

“Can I call you beautiful?” Sherlock finally asked, eyes still roving over John's chest in awe. Then, _oh that was lovely_ , John blushed bright red. From the tips of his ears almost to his nipples.

“Ye- yes.” John reached a hesitant hand out. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. “y- you can touch me now.”

Immediately one of Sherlock’s hands laid itself upon John’s waist while the other went right to his gunshot wound. John’s breath caught and he let out a strange laugh. Sherlock froze, did he do something wrong?  But John leaned down more, grabbing Sherlock's hand and pressing it against the ragged skin, rough edges and baby soft innards.

“No, no you didn’t do anything, you can… it’s just that’s not, not where most people go first.”

“Ah, I thought we’d established that I’m not most people.” Sherlock teased.

John giggled and sagged pressing his face into Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock kissed the side of his head and slid an inquisitive hand to feel along the exit wound. It was larger in diameter than the front, but not by much.

“Is this ok?” Sherlock finally asked just gliding his hand back and forth along John’s exit wound. The older man moaned and ground his hips down into Sherlock who hissed at the relief such minor friction gave him.

“God, I wanna fuck you.” John groaned nipping at Sherlock's throat. Sherlock gasped and stretched his neck, offering more, offering _everything_ ( _did John know that?_ ).

“O-only if- if you- fuck!” Sherlock gasped as John bit down roughly and started sucking like a dammed hoover. Hands started roughly kneading his nipples and Sherlock Holmes was _seriously_ questioning why on earth he had ever started in on the drugs, this was so much better. Finally, John pinched harshly and gave a final suck before rocking back and looking down at Sherlock. Sherlock who was _significantly_ ruffled. John moved off him and Sherlock sat for a moment, still stupefied and trying to catch his breath.

“Go to my room and lay on the bed, take your clothes off,” John ordered. Sherlock jolted, shivering as he was reminded that his boyfriend was a _Captain_ and a damn good one. He nodded obediently and stood on shaky legs.

John’s room was immaculate, as always. The full-sized bed made with military precision. Sherlock paused for a moment, then neatly folded the sheet and comforter along the bottom of the bed, before stripping and laying out on his back. He was tempted to take himself in hand, he hadn’t been this hard in ages, but the thought of John bringing him off was too tempting to pass up. A moment later John entered the room. He had a washcloth and a bowl of water. His eyes softened when he saw his nervous lover spread out invitingly.

“Good boy.” He praised, taking note of how Sherlock's toes curled in pleasure at the endearment.

 John didn’t waste any time, no preamble or showmanship, he just shucked his pants off and kicked them to the side after laying the cloth and bowl on his nightstand. Then climbed astride Sherlock who was blushing madly and so hard it nearly hurt. Sherlock, though tempted to grasp John's thighs caging his body, kept his hands flat against the bed.

“What, um…” Sherlock lost his train of thought for a moment as John softly traced his collar bone and circled his nipples. After a moment Sherlock took a shaky breath and continued. “Rather how do you want to…? That is, what shouldn’t I- I’ve never, well I mean I _have_ done this, just not with anyone who had a…” Sherlock trailed off.

John was grinding against him, Sherlock wasn’t inside the older man, but slid between his lower lips. It was hot and wet, John was soaked, grinding mindlessly, taking his pleasure from Sherlock's body.

“N- not sure.” The older man gasped as his cock caught against Sherlock's erection and he groaned. “I’ll tell you if somethings not o-ok- fuck Sherlock” Sherlock, unable to control himself, bucked his hips.

 “I’m going to ride you this time,” John said breathlessly. Sherlock was powerless to do anything but nod. Honestly, at this point, almost _anything_ would have done it for him. John slowed for a moment, ground his hips once more, and lifted onto his knees.

“C- can I touch you?” Sherlock's hands, at some point, had drifted to John's thighs ( _sturdy, strong, with a fine dusting of golden blond hair._ )

“Yea, here.” John grabbed his hand and dragged it to his center.

He was hot, and so wet Sherlock's fingers couldn’t find purchase. John showed him how to stroke his cock, it was swollen, on the large side though John had chosen to forego bottom surgery, the size wasn't surprising considering how long John had been on HRT. It also seemed to be throbbing in time with John’s heartbeat.

Sherlock stuttered for a moment, unsure of himself. He’d been hesitant to do any research on the sex lives of transgender people, understanding it was a highly unique situation for each person and unwilling to go into a relationship with John holding any assumptions about what he wanted based on the testimonies of others. He also wasn’t lying when he said he’d never been with someone who had a vagina ( _John had told him after a heavy make-out session once that every trans person referred to his or her genitalia differently. Some people chose the biological name, some chose to call them the names of their chosen gender. John called his opening his vagina and his clit a cock. Sherlock had blushed, unused to sexual conversations, and John had giggled. He said he preferred to just use the medical term, and it wasn’t wrong, per-say. A clit was just a vestigial penis, or a penis was a further developed clit, though neither was perfectly accurate_ ). In fact, Sherlock had only ever been with one person, Victor Trevor, his childhood love.

Sherlock's fingers drifted, gently stroking the area between John's cock and opening.

“Sh-should I? Is this ok?” he asked. How his erection hadn’t wilted, considering how much _effort_ he was having to put into keeping his cool and use, what felt like, the extent of his higher thinking, was anyone’s guess. John stopped squirming for a moment, lowering his head, his jaw ticking. Finally, he put his hands-on Sherlock’s shoulders and nodded.

“Just… Just talk to me, ok?” John sounded a little lost for a moment, his eyes not straying from Sherlock's face. Sherlock nodded solemnly. There was something tragically intimate here. John using Sherlock as his link to reality, Sherlock's voice keeping him grounded in the moment as Sherlock's hands gave him pleasure.

“You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met,” Sherlock breathed. Something about John’s apprehensive yet determined face emboldening him to speak the truth. “When I saw you, I knew I wanted you with me. I’m not a kind man. I’m selfish and vain and prideful, but I decided I wanted you in my home the second I saw you. I knew Mycroft had sent you my way, but I also saw a man who could never be bought. A man of unwavering loyalty. I knew you’d be a powerful ally, and I didn’t want you going back to the little bedsit. You were dying there, weren’t you? Fading day by day, alone, you were so _alone_ John. So like me. But you stayed so good _still_ , despite the all-consuming loneliness, despite the anger that ate at you like a cancer. There was something so wholesome about the lonely little unassuming man in that lab. The lonely little man with his cane and scars who looked at me in bewilderment and awe.” Sherlock, who had gotten two fingers in John and crooked them, a habit born of fingering himself and a partner with a prostate. It must have still felt good though, because John gasped, tearful eyes fluttering shut, then open again.

“W- when did you know you wanted t-this?” Sherlock's other hand came up, teasing John’s cock, Sherlock was becoming more confident with every drop of slick that dripped down his fingers and every whine John bit back in his throat.

“When we got back to the flat from Angelo’s. This man I _just_ met had denied my brother, this destitute man refusing thousands of pounds a month out of loyalty for someone he barely knew. This man who was a hollowed-out shell that came to life as we ran about the London streets. You should have _seen_ yourself John, _my_ John. My own star. So beautiful, your eyes twinkling like the night sky. Your eyes are so stunning, you hold worlds and worlds inside you, love, galaxies all there to be seen if only one should look. Your smile was like the sun, I was enraptured and born again in your warmth. I would have kissed you if Mrs. Hudson hadn’t interrupted. I probably would have offered myself to you against the wall…” John groaned and grabbed Sherlock's wrist then.

“Oh- oh god, Sherl, Sherl in me, now, please,” John was hiccuping, crying, from pleasure or joy or something else Sherlock couldn’t tell.

It was a joint effort, John rising himself up on strong thighs while Sherlock held his cock steady. Then John was sitting on him. Both men gasping and moaning. John was so wet, and warm. A shudder ran through the other man and Sherlock whimpered at the way his lovers’ insides convulsed.

Everything was slow, broken gasps and declarations of love filled the room. Wet squelching sounds that made both men blush at the vulgarity of it. Gentle kisses and grasping hands in hair and holding tight to flesh. Eventually, John, driven close by Sherlock's hands along his body and mouth along his throat, sat back on Sherlock fully.

“Fuck, god Christ, fuck, Sherlock, fuck me!” John whined, or demanded, neither man could tell which at this point. Sherlock scrambled for purchase, when he found it he started rocking up into John. Slowly, then as John breathlessly demanded _more_ , he complied. He was sweating, so close he thought he could taste it. Sherlock brought his hand to John’s cock and started jacking the older man. John cried out and arched, offering his body to Sherlock, hands gripping Sherlock's thighs behind him in a bruising grip.

“Oh god, _Sherlock_!” John cried before he gasped brokenly.

Sherlock whined with him as John’s insides fluttered. John’s heartbeat under his fingertips and his insides milking an overwhelmingly powerful orgasm out of him, John bearing down around him, holding Sherlock in place. Sherlock cried out, nearly sobbing John’s name, as he followed the doctor.

The next thing Sherlock was aware of was John tenderly cleaning his stomach and pubic bone. Sherlock hummed, his mind pleasantly buzzing.

“Haven't felt like that in years.” Sherlock slurred. John flopped into bed next to him, fully nude, and yanked the sheets over them both.

“I think I've  _never_ felt like that.” The older man confessed in a quiet voice. Then, even quieter, “you’re the second person I’ve let in me since I transitioned.” 

“Who was the other?” John shifted on the bed, wrapping himself around Sherlock more. Sherlock responded in kind, twisting so their limbs were intertwined and facing each other with heads on a single pillow.

“James Sholto, I told you about him?” Sherlock nodded, “I think he was my first love, first proper one that is.” John shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

“That... was the first time I’ve been with someone in nearly ten years.” Sherlock confessed in kind, “There’s not been anyone since Victor Trevor. I think you said that...  _he_ mentioned Vic briefly?" ( _a nod, neither dwelling on_ him _, unwilling to let Moriarty have a place in their bed._ ) "He was nothing like you. Tall, gangly, all long limbs and dark skin, dreads always pulled back, and he was seemingly _eternally_ covered in paint. He was an artist and a rebel child. Well, a rebel child compared to _me_ anyway. Rock music and tattered jeans and a carefree attitude. I’d known him since we were just boys at school. He was a year younger than me. A good kid.”

“Justa good _kid_?” John asked. Silence had fallen, and they had sunk so low they were almost under the covers. Sherlock nodded.

“He died before he could be a good man. Car crash. He was driving, we were singing too loudly to the radio, laughing. We were coming back from his first art gallery showing. He looked so handsome in his suit, but there was still orange paint under his nails.” Sherlock smiled in the dark at the memory.

“How old were you?”

“Nineteen, he was eighteen. We’d been a couple for three years, friends for far longer. I came into town, I wanted to be with him when he showed his painting. I knew it was important for him to have someone there. His parents couldn't go, they both had work. There was nothing either of us could have done. It was dark, his painting was blocking the back window, and the driver behind us was drunk. He tried to go around us, ended up hitting an oncoming car, Vic tried to swerve. We spun out, ended up in a ditch. I came to a few minutes later, had a horrible concussion, broken wrist, broken nose, broken ribs, broken legs, broken _everything_. He was gone, just... _staring_ at me with glassy eyes. His skin was so dark the blood looked like black goo against it,  running into his hair as we hung upside down. Ironically neither the drunk driver, nor anyone in the car he hit, perished. I got hooked on the pain meds after the hospital visit, stayed on those all through my last two years of uni, moved onto the stronger stuff when I was out in the real world, alone.” John took his hand and kissed it. They hadn't told each other these stories yet, only alluded to it.

“James got a dozen boys killed. The weight of the guilt is crushing him. I can’t do anything. I still love him, a part of me always will, he was my first for a lot of things, but I can’t save him from himself. What happened, happened. He’s hated for a mistake anyone could have made.”

“Is a part of you... _glad_ they’re not in that role for us anymore?” Sherlock whispered like it was a secret, like they were in a crowded room instead of all alone in their flat. “It’s like… sometimes it feels like I _had_ to lose Vic, I had to go through all the drugs, I had to be a right cock to even come _close_ to deserving you. I’m not glad he’s dead, I still miss him sometimes, when I hear a certain song or smell drying paint, or see someone who looks like him, and I still love him, but it made me someone _new_. Who I am now wouldn’t have been happy with him forever. But I think who I am now could be happy with _you_ for the rest of my life. Does that make sense?”

John nodded thoughtfully, “It’s almost like fate was molding us, shaving away the excess baby fat left by innocence. She stripped us down to our bones, both of us, and what she saw didn’t belong with who we thought it belonged with.”

John laid his forehead against Sherlock’s and closed his eyes. Sherlock did the same and gripped his hand tightly.

“Mind if our bones lay together forever?”

“Morbid…” John giggled, and Sherlock followed suit. “How about I just give you a golden ring instead? That ought to last a while.”

Sherlock's breath caught “Did you just-?”

“Not yet. Be patient my love. And let your brother have his moment first” John grinned at him and Sherlock grinned back before it fade away.

“I'll not see it as a moment of waiting, long as I'm with you.” He promised solemnly.


End file.
